Afternoon, four o'clock.
After a grueling day at school, Takizawa returned to his bachelor pad with a heated chicken cutlet bento from the convenience store downstairs.
He yanked off his school badge with the flair of an office worker loosening a tie, though no gentle soul waited to rub his shoulders or draw a bath.
The vice-principal had called the principal, who was away on an exchange program, and relayed the situation. The principal took it seriously, promising a hefty stack of "Yukichi Fukuzawa aid" as a reward for breaking the school's University of Tokyo drought. (Yukichi Fukuzawa is the portrait featured on Japanese yen banknotes)
Under the vice-principal's probing, Takizawa learned the principal, his father, and his grandfather had all tried and failed to crack Tokyo U. The principal himself, carrying three generations' dreams, retook the exams only to fall short, tearfully settling for Waseda University.
The school, with its long history, had produced many stellar scholars, but zero Tokyo U admits.
Over time, it became the principal's obsession.
The vice-principal often caught him staring out the office window toward the nation's top university while lost in thought.
Most men have a dream.
After reflecting on this cycle of aspiration and defeat, Takizawa sighed deeply.
He'd only agonized over elite universities as a clueless six- or seven-year-old.
Kids, show-offs, and gacha addicts lack the rationality to see their own limits.
Even now, he didn't believe he could conquer the academic graveyard where countless high school prodigies had fallen.
Perfect recall was just an open-book exam buff. He'd copied notes and taken tests before—textbooks didn't always save you.
But the vice-principal was brimming with confidence.
"Our top-class teachers are battle-hardened exam veterans. I've drafted your study plan—'Freestyle in the Sea of Questions'! Tailored to your talents, guaranteed for life. If you don't pass this year, there's always next!"
Takizawa thought it over and agreed. The exams were less than three months away.
Go for broke—turn a bicycle into a motorcycle. Pass, and he'd help the school fulfill its dream while snagging a fat reward. Fail, and he'd still graduate and step into society.
But it meant… he had to take school seriously.
Takizawa peeled back the steamy bento lid, grabbed disposable chopsticks, and dug into dinner. Honestly, the convenience store bento wasn't half bad.
In the empty room, only the sound of him scarfing food broke the silence.
Takizawa Satoru probably came home like this, eating alone.
Solo living meant embracing solitude. From the lively chaos of school to the sudden stillness of a rental, you had to adjust to the drop.
Living alone was great—no interruptions, no nagging, no obligations, no draining social dances. Stay up late, get drunk, game all night—whatever.
But when a funny video or exciting news made you laugh out loud, and you looked up to an empty living room, you felt a bit foolish.
No one to share the joy, no one to vent the frustrations.
Night fell, vendors packed up, shops shuttered, and the city's buzz sank into sleep. Urban haze dulled the sky; stars hung in the galaxy but out of sight. Only streetlights flickered in the shadows.
Mid-bite, Takizawa instinctively grabbed his phone to check social feeds for his friends' latest antics.
But he held Takizawa Satoru's old-school flip phone.
His chopstick hand paused. He chewed slowly, then looked up.
Flipping open the phone, he scrolled the contacts—every one's strangers.
He sat still for a moment, then thumbed in a number etched in his heart.
On speaker, the dial tone buzzed with static, like a signal lost in the city, drifting aimlessly through buildings, wind, and night.
No destination.
Soon, a prerecorded operator's voice politely informed him the number was invalid.
Takizawa sighed silently, tossed the phone aside, and shoveled the last bites of food into his mouth.
He leaned his head back after eating his fill, staring at the sketch on his laptop.
Every man has a dream. He was no exception.
Takizawa Satoru had filled diaries with bold ambitions.
A community college guy, he'd jokingly called himself elite, but options were slim.
Deliver food for the masses in a red uniform? Don a sharp suit, slick back his hair, and sell real estate? Or sport a dark tie, crisp shirt, arms crossed in a profile pic, peddling loans online?
When forced to choose, he picked the impractical one.
He just wanted his work and experiences to bring joy to his future self. That's it.
He didn't want to hit his fifties or sixties, hair thinning, steps slowing, life reduced to daily chores and routine.
A wife's complaints, aging parents gone, kids' troubles cycling endlessly.
Sure, that's ordinary life.
But he didn't want to spend his downtime square-dancing in a park.
At least with this, when he's old, he could still draw, pouring his heart into life. His fourth-grade crayon art won second place—some small talent, right?
Humanity's pursuit of beauty spans millennia; the study and innovation of art never pause.
Art's like that—endless hours, no finish line. Only history and civilization itself can wield it.
But for countless small lives, it's insignificant.
Some draw manga and question existence. Others stagnate in comfort zones. Some turn from exploited to exploiter in business.
Most just can't keep up and quit.
"Be glad you were that foolish. At least here, the dream came along."
Not always, but when grinding skills alone to earn a living, that dream got him through late nights and dawns.
Takizawa picked up the stylus.
"You're the closest thing I've got here."
He exhaled deeply.
Memories spun like a carousel, a vast library trembling. Grueling practice, lessons heard, techniques tried—they leapt from neat shelves, swirling around him.
All vivid and sharp.
Hundreds, thousands of sketches, an orderly array, replaying from draft to finish.
Skill's root is understanding, acting, embedding it in your bones.
He was clumsy, often just mimicking, lacking the masters' rich insight, flair, or genius strokes.
But tracing his dream-chasing journey, unraveling doubts and struggles, he saw the gains.
Maybe I'm not that bad.
Takizawa opened his eyes, drenched in sweat, shirt clinging front to back, stomach growling despite just eating.
He stared at the stylus.
For the first time, the dream felt truly in his grasp.
No longer copying blindly—he was starting to master it.
Takizawa stood to wash off the sweat, then paused, taking a fresh look at the small space.
Takizawa Satoru had toiled here too, chasing the same goal, reminiscing about warm childhood days with his father.
At the thought, he smiled softly.
***
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